Street Music
Exclusive Ebooks by JA Konrath
Copyright
Street Music is my favorite story of any I’ve written. Phineas Trout was the hero of my first novel, an unpublished mystery called Dead On My Feet, written back in 1992. It was unabashedly hardboiled, and it helped me land my first agent. The book never sold, probably because it was unabashedly hardboiled. Phin starred in two more unpublished novels, and then I relegated him to the role of sidekick in the Jack Daniels series, which did wind up selling. I’m intrigued by the idea of a hero dying of cancer, and how having no hope left could erode a man’s morality. I wrote this story right after selling Whiskey Sour, and soon after sold it to Ellery Queen.
Mitch couldn’t answer me with the barrel of my gun in his mouth, so I pulled it out.
“I don’t know! I swear!”
If that was the truth, I had no use for it. After three days of questioning dozens of hookers, junkies, and other fine examples of Chicago’s populace, Mitch was my only link to Jasmine. I was seriously jonesing; I hadn’t done a line since Thursday. Plus, the pain in my side felt like a baby alligator was trying to eat its way out of my pancreas.
I gave Mitch’s chin a little tap with the butt of the Glock.
“I really don’t know!”
“She’s one of yours, Mitch. I thought big, tough pimps like you ran a tight ship.”
His black face was shiny with sweat and a little blood. Sure, he was scared. But he wasn’t stupid. Telling me Jasmine’s whereabouts would put a dent in his income.
I raised the gun back to hit him again.
“She went rogue on me, man! She ditched!”
I paused. If Jasmine had left Mitch, his reluctance to talk about it made some sense. Mack Daddies don’t like word to get out that they’re losing their game.
“How much money do you have on you?”
“About four hundos. It’s yours, man. Front pants pocket.”
“I’m not putting my hand in there. Take it out.”
Mitch managed to stop shaking long enough to retrieve a fat money clip. I took the cash, and threw the clip—a gold emblem in the shape of a female breast–onto the sidewalk.
“You letting me go?” Mitch asked.
“You’re free to pimp another day. Go run to the bus station, see if you can find some other fresh meat to bust out.”
When I let go of his lapels, his spine seemed to grow back. He adjusted the collar on his velour jump suit and made sure his baseball hat was tilted to the correct odd angle.
“Ain’t like that. I treat my girls good. Plenty of sweet love and all the rock they can smoke.”
“Leave. Now. Before I decide to do society a favor.”
He sneered, spun on his three hundred dollar sneakers, and did his pimp strut away from me.
I probably should have killed him; I had too many enemies already. But, tough as I am, shooting fourteen-year-old kids in the back isn’t my style.
The four hundred was enough to score some coke, but not very much. I thought about calling Manny, my dealer, and getting a sample to help kill the pain, but every minute I wasted gave Jasmine a chance to slip farther away.
Pain relief would have to wait. I pressed my hand to my left side and exited the alley and wondered where the hell I should look next.
I’d already checked Jasmine’s apartment, her boyfriend’s apartment, her parent’s house, her known pick-up spots, and three local crack houses.
To rule out other options, I had to call in a marker.
It was September, about seventy with clear skies, so I took a walk down the block. The first payphone I came to had gum jammed in the coin slot. The second one smelled like a urinal, but I made do.
“Violent Crimes, Daniels.”
“Hi, Jack. Phineas Troutt.”
“Phin? Haven’t seen you at the pool hall lately. Afraid I’ll kick your ass?”
My lips twisted in a tight grin. Jacqueline Daniels was a police Lieutenant who busted me a few years back. We had an on-again-off-again eight ball game Monday nights. I’d missed a few.
“I’m sort of preoccupied with something.”
“Chemo again?”
“No, work. Listen, you know what I do, right?”
“You’re a freelance thug.”
“I prefer the term problem solver. I keep it clean.”
“I’m guessing that’s because we haven’t caught you in the act, yet.”
“And you never will. Look, Jack, I need a favor.”
“I can’t do anything illegal, Phin. You know that.”
“Nothing shady. I just have to rule some stuff out. I’m looking for a woman. Hooker. Name is Janet Cumberland, goes by the street nick Jasmine. Any recent arrests or deaths with that name?”
There was a pause on the line. I could only guess Jack’s thoughts.
“Give me half an hour,” she decided. “Got a number where I can call you back?”
I killed time at a hot dog stand, sipping black coffee mixed with ten crushed Tylenol tablets; they worked faster when they were pre-dissolved.
The phone rang eighteen minutes later.
“No one at the morgue matching that name, and her last arrest was three months ago.”
“Do you have a place of residence?”
Jack read off the apartment number I’d already checked.
“How about known acquaintances?”
“She’s one of Mitch D’s girls. Been arrested a few times with another prostitute named Georgia Williamson, street name is Ajax. Kind of an odd name for a hooker.”
“She one of Mitch’s, too?”
“Lemme check. No, looks like she’s solo.”
“Got an addy?”
Jack gave it to me.
“There’s also a note in Janet’s file, says her parents are looking for her. That your angle? Even if you find her, the recit rate with crack is over 95 percent. They’ll stick her in rehab and a week later she’ll be on the street again.”
“Thanks for the help, Jack. Next time we play pool, beer’s on me.”
“You’re on, Phin. How’s the—”
“Hurts,” I interrupted. “But my doc says it won’t for much longer.”
“The tumor is shrinking? That’s great news!”
I didn’t correct her. The tumor was growing like a weed. I wouldn’t be in pain much longer because I didn’t have much longer.
Which is why I had to find Jasmine, and fast.
She had to die first.
Georgia Williams, aka Ajax, lived on 81st and Stoney, in a particularly mean part of Chicago’s South Side. Night was rolling in, bringing with it the bangers, junkies, ballers, wanna-bes, and thugs. None of them were thrilled to see a white guy on their turf, and some flashed their iron as I drove by.
Ajax’s place wasn’t easy to find, and asking for directions didn’t strike me as a smart idea. Maybe in neighborhoods this bad, whole buildings got stolen.
Finally, I narrowed it down to a decrepit apartment without any street number. I parked in front, set the alarm on my Bronco, and made sure I had one in the chamber.
“You lost, white boy?”
I ignored the three gang members—Gangster Disciples according to their colors—and headed for the building. The front door had a security lock, but it was long broken. There was a large puddle of something in front of the staircase, which I walked around.
Ajax lived in 206. I took the stairs two at a time, followed a hall decorated with graffiti and vomit, and found her door.
“Georgia Williams? Chicago PD!”
Another door opened opposite me, fearful old eyes peeking out through the crack.
“Is Ms. Williams home?” I asked the neighbor.
The door closed again.
&nbs
p; I kicked away a broken bottle that was near my feet, and knocked again.
“Georgia Williams! Open the door!”
“You got ID?”
A woman’s voice, cold and firm. I held a brass star, $12.95 on eBay, up to the peephole.
“Where’s your partner?” asked the voice.
“Watching the car. We’re looking for a friend of yours. Jasmine. She’s in big trouble.”
“She sure is.”
“Can I come in?”
I heard a deadbolt snick back. Then another. The door swung inward, revealing a black girl of no more than sixteen. She wore jeans, a white blouse. Her face was garishly made-up. Stuck to her hip was a sleeping infant.
“Can’t be long. Gotta go to work.”
Ajax stepped to the side, and I entered her apartment. Expecting squalor, I was surprised to find the place clean and modestly furnished. The ceiling had some water damage, and one wall was losing its plaster, but there were nice curtains and matching furniture and even some framed art. This was the apartment of someone who hadn’t given up yet.
“I’ll be straight with you, Georgia. If we don’t find Jasmine soon, it’s very likely she’ll be killed. You know about Artie Collins?”
She nodded, once.
“If you know where she is, it’s in her best interest to tell me.”
“Sorry, cop. I don’t know nothing.”
I took out my Glock, watched her eyes get big.
“Do you have a license for this firearm I found on your premises, Georgia?”
“Aw, this is—”
I got in her face, sneering.
“I’ll tell you what this is. Six months in County, minimum. With your record, the judge won’t even think twice. And say goodbye to your baby; when I get done wrecking this place, DCFS will declare you so unfit you won’t be allowed within two hundred yards of anyone under aged ten.”
Her lips trembled, but there were no tears.
“You bastards are all the same.”
“I want Jasmine, Ajax. She’s dead if I don’t find her.”
I gave her credit for toughness. She held out. I had to topple a dresser and put my foot through her TV before she broke down.
“Stop it! She’s with her boyfriend!”
“Nice try. I already checked Melvin Kincaid.”
“Not Mel. She found a new guy. Named Buster something.”
“Buster what?”
“I dunno.”
I chucked a vase at the wall. The baby in her arms was wiggling, hysterical.
“I don’t have his last name! But I got a number.”
Georgia went for her purse on the bed, but I shoved the Glock in her face.
“I’ll look.”
The purse was the size of a cigarette pack, with rhinestone studs and spaghetti straps. A hooker purse. I didn’t figure there could be much of a weapon in there, and was once again surprised. A .22 ATM spilled onto the bed.
“I’m sure this has a license.”
Georgia didn’t answer. I rifled through the packs of mint gum and condoms until I found a matchbook with a phone number written on the back.
“This it?”
“Yeah.”
“Can’t you shut that kid up?”
Georgia cooed the baby, rocking it back and forth, while I picked up her .22 and removed the bullets. I tossed the gun back on the bed, and put the lead and the matchbook in my pocket.
She got my evil face when I walked past her.
“If you warn her I’m coming, I’ll know it was you.”
“I won’t say a damn thing, officer.”
“I know you won’t.”
I fished out three of the hundreds I took from Mitch D, and shoved them into her hand. It was a lot more than the TV was worth.
“By the way, why do they call you Ajax?”
She shrugged.
“I’ve robbed a few tricks.”
“Meaning?”
“Ajax cleans out the johns.”
When I got back outside, the three Disciples had multiplied into six, and they were standing in front of my truck.
“This is a nice truck, white boy. Can we have it?”
My Glock 21 held thirteen forty-five caliber rounds. More than enough. But Jack was the one who gave me this address, and if I killed any of these bozos she’d eventually get the word.
Dying of cancer was bad enough. Dying of cancer in prison was not on my to-do list.
Stuck in my belt, nestled along my spine, was a combat baton. Sixteen inches long, made of a tightly coiled steel spring. Because it could bend, it didn’t break bones.
But it did hurt like crazy.
The Disciples had apparently expected me to tremble in fear, because I clocked three of them across the heads before they went into attack mode.
The first one to draw was a thin kid who watched too many rap videos. He pulled a 9mm out of his baggy pants and thrust it at me sideways, with the back of his hand facing skyward.
Not only did this mess up your aim, but your grip was severely compromised. I gave him a tap across the back of the knuckles, and the gun hit the pavement. A second smack in the forehead opened up a nice gash. As with his buddies, the blood running into his eyes made him blind and worthless. I turned on the last two.
One had a blade. He held it underhanded, tip up, showing me he knew how to use it. After two feints, he thrust it at my face.
I turned, catching the tip on my cheek, and gave him an elbow to the nose. When he stumbled back, he also got a tap across the eyebrows.
The last guy was fifty yards away, sprinting for reinforcements.
I climbed in my Bronco and hauled out of there before they arrived.
“Hi, Jack, I need one more favor.”
“You already owe me a night of beer.”
“I’ll also spring for pizza. I need an address to go with this number.”
“Lemme have it.”
I read it to her, hoping Georgia was honest with me. I didn’t want to pay another visit to Stoney Island.
“Buster McDonalds. Four-four-two-three Irving Park, apartment seven-oh-six.”
“Thanks again, Jack.”
“Listen, Phin, I asked around about Janet Cumberland. The word on the street is that Artie Collins put a contract out on her.”
“I’ll be careful.”
There was a long pause on the line. I cut off her thought.
“I don’t work for mobsters, Jack. I don’t kill people for money.”
“Watch yourself, Phin.”
She hung up.
I stopped at a drive-thru, filled up on grease, and had ten more aspirin. My side ached to the touch. I had stronger stuff, doctor prescribed, but that dulled the senses and took away my edge. I thought about scoring some coke, but the hundred I had left wouldn’t buy much, and time was winding down.
I had to find Jasmine.
Buster’s neighborhood was several rungs above Ajax’s as far as quality of life went. No junkies shooting up in the alleys, hookers on the corners, or roving gangs of teens with firearms.
There were, however, lots of kids drunk out of their minds, moving in great human waves from bar to bar. The area was a hot spot for night life, and Friday night meant the partying was mandatory.
Even the hydrants were taken, so I parked in an alley, blocking the entrance. I took the duffle bag from the passenger seat and climbed out into the night air.
The temp had dropped, and I imagined I could smell Lake Michigan, even though it was miles away. There were voices, shouting, laughing, cars honking. I stood in the shadows.
The security door on Buster’s apartment had a lock that was intact and functioning, unlike Ajax’s. I spotted someone walking out and caught the door before it closed, and then I took the elevator to the seventh floor.
The cop impersonation wouldn’t work this time; Jasmine was on the run and wouldn’t open the door for anybody.
But I had a key.
It was another online purchase. The
re were thirty-four major lock companies in the US, and they made ninety-five percent of all the locks in America. These lock companies each had a few dozen models, and each of the models had a master key that opened up every lock in the series.
Locksmiths could buy these master keys. So could anyone with a credit card who knew the right website.
The lock on Buster’s apartment was a Schlage. I took a large key ring from my duffel bag and got the door open on the third try.
Jasmine and Buster were on a futon, watching TV. I was on him before he had a chance to get up.
When he reached for me, I grabbed his wrist and twisted. Then, using his arm like a lever, I forced him face down into the carpeting.
“Buster!”
I didn’t have time to deal with Jasmine yet, so she got a kick in the gut. She went down. I took out roll of duct tape and secured Buster’s wrists behind him. When that was done, I wound it around his legs a few times.
“Jazz, run!”
His mouth was next.
Jasmine had curled up in the corner of the room, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. She was a little thing, no older than Ajax, wearing sweatpants and an extra large t-shirt. Her black hair was pulled back and fear distorted her features.
I made it worse by showing her my Glock.
“Tell me about Artie Collins.”
She shrunk back, making herself smaller.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“No one is killing anyone. Why does Artie want you dead?”
“The book.”
“What book?”
She pointed to the table next to the futon. I picked up a ledger, scanned a few pages.
Financial figures, from two of Artie’s clubs. I guessed that these were the ones the IRS didn’t see.
“Stupid move, lady. Why’d you take these from him?”
“He’s a pig,” she spat, anger overriding terror. “Artie doesn’t like it straight. He’s a real freak. He did things to me, things no one has ever done.”
“So you stole this?”
“I didn’t know what it was. I wanted to hurt him, it was right there in the dresser. So I took it.”
Gutsy, but dumb. Stealing from one of the most connected guys in the Midwest was a good way to shorten your life expectancy.
“Artie is offering ten thousand dollars for you. And there’s a bonus if it’s messy.”
Street Music Page 1